"Perhaps we could offer him full-time work. Heaven knows there is always more to be done in the stables, and he is a skilled handler. What do you think?"
"I think it would make an enormous difference to their family." Elizabeth felt a swell of affection for him—not just for his generosity, but for his willingness to seek her opinion on such matters. "And Mr Galpin is indeed skilled. Several people have mentioned his way with horses."
"Then it is settled. I shall speak with the head groom today." He smiled at her. "You are doing an excellent job as Mrs Darcy. The tenants speak highly of you. They say you listen to their concerns and remember details about their families. That means more to them than you might realise."
"I simply pay attention to what people tell me." She felt heat rise again in her cheeks at the praise. "It does not seem like anything extraordinary."
"It is rarer than you think. Many in our position see tenants as merely numbers in a ledger, problems to be managed rather than people to be cared for. But you don't, and that makes all the difference.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the morning sun casting patterns across the bedcovers. She felt a contentment she had not known she was capable of—a sense of being exactly where she belonged, with exactly the right person.
"I should let you dress," Fitzwilliam said eventually. "But I wanted to ensure you were well, especially after yesterday's events." He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that sent pleasant tremors through her. "I nearly lost you to that downpour. I'm glad you are here, safe, and mine."
The possessiveness in that last word nearly made her dizzy with joy. She was his, indeed. Just as he was hers. "I don't want to imagine being elsewhere."
Elizabeth spent the rest of the day attending to various household matters, her thoughts occasionally drifting to the kiss they had shared that morning. There was also the look in Fitzwilliam’s eyes: so full of intensity and barely restrained desire. Later that evening, she was in her chambers preparing to dress for dinner when her lady’s maid entered with an unusual request.
"Begging your pardon, Mrs Darcy, but Mr Darcy has sent word that dinner will be served in the small dining room this evening rather than the formal dining room. He asks if you might wear one of your pretty silk gowns."
Elizabeth blinked in surprise. From what she had been told, the small dining room was rarely used, reserved primarily for intimate family meals. "Did he say why?"
"No, ma'am. Only that he hoped you would indulge his request."
Her curiosity thoroughly piqued, she dressed with care in a deep emerald silk gown that matched the brown of her eyes. Her maid arranged her hair in an elegant style that managed to be both sophisticated and romantic.
When she descended to the dining room at seven, the space had been transformed.
Dozens of candles cast a warm, flickering glow throughout the room. A small table had been set near the windows, intimate and inviting, with fine china and crystal gleaming in the candlelight. The effect was intimate, transforming the dining area into something that felt almost like a private sanctuary. Fitzwilliam stood as she entered, and the expression on his face as he took in her appearance made the effort worthwhile.
Her breath ceased momentarily as she took it all in. “Fitzwilliam, you did this?"
"You said you wanted a good dinner, nothing too formal. Excellent food, good wine and great conversation." He gestured toward the table. "And afterwards, a private dance. Just the two of us, with beautiful music. No audience. No performance. Simply..." He paused, his gaze intent on hers. "Simply us.
"But how, when did you—" she struggled to form coherent words, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of it all. "We only spoke of this a day ago."
"I have discovered that being master of Pemberley has certain advantages. And Mrs Reynolds is remarkably efficient when properly motivated."
She turned to him, emotions swelling in her chest until she could scarcely breathe. Here was another reason why he was such a good match for her. He listened to her words, understood what she valued and took immediate action to provide it. All because he wanted to make her happy.
"I don't know what to say," she finally managed. "This is perfect."
"You don't need to say anything. You look beautiful," he said.
"Thank you." Elizabeth took the seat he held for her. "And thank you for arranging all of this."
The meal that followed exceeded her expectations. Course after course emerged from the kitchen, each one prepared to perfection—dishes she had mentioned enjoying in passing conversations, flavours she preferred, nothingshe disliked. Mrs Cardogan had clearly received detailed instructions and had risen to the challenge magnificently.
They talked throughout the meal, any ounce of self-consciousness departing as the minutes flew by Fitzwilliam made her laugh with a dry observation about his aunt's old letters, and Elizabeth countered with an equally amusing story about Lydia's theatrical declarations of eternal love for some officer or other.
When the final course was cleared away, he offered her his hand. "Shall we?"
He led her to the music room, where candles had been arranged around the perimeter, their light casting dancing shadows on the walls. A gentleman sat at the pianoforte—Mr Ephraim from the village, Elizabeth recognised, known for his exceptional skill. He nodded respectfully at their entrance and began to play without needing instruction.
The melody was beautiful—something classical but unfamiliar, with a romantic lilt that seemed designed for dancing. He drew her into his arms, one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers, and they began to move in time to the music.
"Is this what you imagined?" he asked softly, his breath warm against her ear.
"Better," she admitted. "I had not imagined how it would feel to dance with you specifically. Now I'm glad about that because nothing compares to reality.”
